Notes:
1. English is not my first language so I guess some (I really hope just a few) grammar, syntax and vocabulary errors should be expected.
2. This is my first fanfic ever and basically more of an experiment.
3. Rated M for later chapters.
4. Original title was "The Science of Attraction" but I found out that it was taken. (So much for originality)
5. Reviews, comments, corrections and recommendations will be highly appreciated!

CHAPTER 1

So, there she was again. An overly grey November evening, leaving three quid on the scratched wooden counter of a snug little place called "Speedy's". She heard the little bell dangling above the entrance chime cheerfully while her lace-up biker boots touched the pavement in front of the cafe. Sipping from the steaming paper cup, she took another glimpse of the black door with the golden numbers and the elegantly elaborate door knocker. 221B Baker St., her newly acquired obsession. It's been almost two weeks now and she still didn't feel bored even though she hadn't seen the man himself. That, she thought, ought to be a big improvement since her last attempt to force some interest in her drub mundane life. Even though, she had to admit, there was something utterly childish about this new habit. She just couldn't bring herself to stop, not yet.

Wrapping her black leather jacket tightly around her, she crossed the street feeling the biting cold against her fair skin. With one hand holding the jacket in place and the other gripping the hot cup she hissed a curse for not having a third one to tidy the annoying strands of long dark hair that flew in front of – and some of them into – her eyes with the sudden gust of air. Shaking her head violently to get rid of the stubborn locks she continued her inaudible mumble all the way to her building at Upper Berkley St., while fishing the keys out of her backpack, climbing the stairs to the 3rd floor and down the corridor, where her mutter gradually came to a halt upon the realization that the door to her flat was wide open. No signs of a break-in as far as she could tell.

Now, she never considered herself to be particularly brave, she was more of the staying-out-of-trouble, knowing-your-place, freezing-when-scared type of girl but something inside her head – probably plain old stupidity – told her that she had nothing to worry about, that nothing was actually wrong. Placing her now cold coffee on the floor next to the doorframe she reached once more for her backpack wanting to find something, anything, she could use as a weapon. Just in case... Her fingertips touched something cool and she fumbled with a slender metal object. After a few seconds of consideration she took it out and with a swift and practiced movement of her wrist the blade of her balisong was gleaming under the pale light above her head. Now she was armed – to use the term loosely – and feeling bold she slid inside her dark studio apartment with her right hand extended and slightly trembling. She tried to tread lightly but the wood floor was old and creaking. Pausing and wincing after every step, she got to the switch and flicked it to turn the lights on; nothing suspicious. Tiptoeing she got to the bathroom. Empty. Getting a bit anxious she started to look all over the place for anything that might give her the slightest clue for what had happened. She opened her wardrobe, the fridge, even the cupboards. When she started peeking under the bright red sofa she realized that she was in the midst of a delirium and forced herself to stop.

The door was now closed, locked and bolted. The paper "Speedy's" cup was accompanying those of the previous day and the day before that in the trashcan. Her backpack was hanging from the coat rack next to her jacket and her favorite red scarf. Her boots were thrown somewhere between her king-size bed and the kitchen and her beautiful butterfly knife was resting on the heavy black coffee table amongst sketch-books, pencils, markers and other drawing paraphernalia. She was still wearing the black leggings – without the knee-high loose skirt – and her worn out grey cashmere jumper. She had already checked all the windows and had found them securely closed.

Her landlord, Mr. Price, reassured her that he saw no one getting in or out the building while she was gone and she trusted the man. The fact that he told her it was probably her that left the door open fretted her a bit but she quickly came over it. She may be 25 but she also was quite childlike – in behavior and appearance alone mind you – and she could understand that a 72-year-old man would find it difficult to not rationalize that she was overreacting over an open door and an intact apartment. Plus she had forgotten her keys so many times it was easy to assume that maybe this time she had been so careless that she didn't realize the door had remained open while she was rushing out. All her other neighbors were either away or otherwise engaged but were all quick to jump to the conclusion that she was probably mistaken and just didn't close the door all the way. She knew that there was no point in calling the police since nothing was missing and everything was where it was supposed to be. She was the only person so sure that she was right, that something weird had happened here. Yet, strangely enough, she did not feel panic, just a tantalizing rush of adrenaline.

Then it hit her… Yeah… Why not?
Of course she was in no position to pay the man but not everyone did after all. He was just a good-case-junky, at least that's what she had understood from this Watson character's blog. She wasn't sure if hers could qualify as a "good case" – after all there were no corpses involved, yet – but the least she could do was give it a try. It's been three weeks since she found his website, "The Science of Deduction", and just over two that she decided to try to meet him up close. She realized after a week's effort that this was not such an easy task – she hadn't even managed to merely look at him – but she hadn't given up and now there emerged a wonderful opportunity to do so without having to creep up on the guy to which he was highly likely to not respond really well.

She sat comfortably on the sofa, her MacBook on her lap, and began typing:
Dear Mr. Holmes…